


A Confession that Contains its own Proof

by JWAB



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JWAB/pseuds/JWAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan is desperate to win Constance back, but he can't do it alone.</p><p>“After all, what is a kiss? A vow made at closer range, a more precise promise, a confession that contains its own proof…; it’s a secret told to the mouth rather than to the ear, a fleeting moment filled with the hush of eternity… a way of living by the beat of another heart, and tasting another soul on one’s lips.” – Cyrano de Bergerac (Edmond Rostand)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let him hang himself

**Author's Note:**

> With wild dances of gratitude to CreepingMuse, who lovingly betaed this chapter TWICE, and who suspected immediately that Aramis is the one whose mind we'd rather inhabit. Oh, how right she was!

According to d’Artagnan, love was torture. A cruel mistress. No, it was a fragile blossom. Really, an entire garden of delights. No, it was the treacherous sea, drowning every last sailor. Love was a fierce hound and he was a bloody rat delivered in its jaws.

Aramis couldn’t leave him like this.

“How can she end it when she loves me?” D’Artagnan slumped over the unbalanced table, setting the wine in Aramis’ glass sloshing. “Tell me, Aramis, how?”

Tireless, circling agony, born of inexperience and wine. Two bottles, at last count.

Aramis began the interminable session countering with reason. He explained, gently, that Constance might instead be honored for holding her marriage sacred. He suggested that Bonacieux’s move, infuriating as it was, demonstrated how very much he cherished his bride, and isn’t that what d’Artagnan would want for her? He tallied the number of lovely ladies in Paris who would likely make a happy substitute for Constance, then extrapolated from that the total number of willing women in the whole of France. Nothing cracked d’Artagnan’s determined misery.

These several hours later, the best he could do was sympathize. “It’s a tragedy,” he said in place of an answer.

Aramis could easily recall his own despair when his beloved Isabelle was snatched away. The pain of it was weaker now, so many years hence and with the revelation that it had been her choice to leave him. But the ache remained, as much a part of him as his right arm. If only there had been a wise, experienced friend beside him when he drank himself sick and railed at the heavens.

And so he stayed as d’Artagnan retraced his woe.

“And if she loves me, and I her – and I do, Aramis, you know I do --”

“I know,” Aramis assured him.

“Then we must be together,” d’Artagnan said, smacking his leg when he missed the edge of the table.

If he had had a wise friend beside him amid the delirious sorrow of those first lonely days, perhaps Aramis would have left off to sleep once in a while instead of passing out in the mud. “You should get to bed,” Aramis suggested, standing. “And so should I. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

D’Artagnan lurched in his seat, grabbing a handful of leather and, beneath it, linen at Aramis’ waist. “How will I live without her?”

With a sad smile, Aramis untangled d’Artagnan’s fist from his clothes, then lifted him to his feet. Only when d’Artagnan’s balance was assured did Aramis slide his palm up onto the young man’s shoulder. “You’ll live,” he promised, dropping a few coins on the table before steering him toward the door. “Believe me.”

* * *

 

The very next morning d’Artagnan burst into the garrison’s courtyard, thrumming with a new energy, and marched right up to Aramis. “I’ve written her a letter,” he announced, slamming a folded page onto Aramis’ chest. “I’ll win her back. She’ll change her mind.”

The young man had missed the point completely. Somehow, from last night’s swamp of despair and wine, d’Artagnan had twisted Aramis’ wise counsel to move on into a suggestion that he redouble his efforts with Constance. Aramis plucked the letter from d’Artagnan’s fingers.

“It’s good,” d’Artagnan promised.

It was possible. After all, d’Artagnan was a strong, if dangerously impulsive, swordsman. He had been carefully trained. Perhaps his father had given similar attention to his education as well. Aramis squinted at his proud jaw, his eyes blazing with determination, scrutinizing his features as if he could see the man’s expertise scrawled upon them.

Porthos and Athos lifted skeptical faces to watch as, finally, Aramis unfolded the paper. “My dearest, perfect, beautiful flower Constance,” he read aloud.

Porthos snorted. “Quite a start.”

“She is all of that and more,” d’Artagnan argued.

Holding fast to hope, Aramis read the rest of the note to the gathered men. “We must be together. Your husband’s life be damned – I am your love. Let him hang himself! The better for us both and I will prove my love to you. You know where to find me.”

“Romantic,” Athos commented, dry as sand, below Porthos’ guffaws.

“That’s the end?” Aramis asked, as gently as he could. He turned the paper over and back again, longing for even one salvageable sentence.

“It is,” d’Artagnan answered. “Sweet and to the point. Now I just have to figure out how to deliver it. Bonacieux will have my head if I show my face there again.”

“Deliver that? No, it’s pure shit,” Athos told him.

But d’Artagnan was doggedly entrenched. “Every word I wrote is true,” d’Artagnan insisted. “If she loves me, she’ll come running.”

“If she loves you, that letter is the quickest way to make her stop,” Porthos volleyed.

D’Artagnan’s hand fell to his sword. “Stand and tell me that.”

But Aramis braced him with a steady arm. The young man had to accept the truth, as painful as it might be. “D’Artagnan, they’re right. You can’t give this letter to Constance.”

“But I must be with her, Aramis.” He could see d’Artagnan’s proud facade threatening to wilt under the exhausting strain of heartbreak. “I can’t go to her, I can’t imagine a day without her. I thought – a letter – it’s a chance, maybe my only chance.”

Aramis hated to deny him. If nothing else, a mission would distract him from his pain and might even buoy d’Artagnan’s spirits. There was even a faint possibility that, if composed with the right combination of charm and desire, a well-written missive could convince her to resume their dalliance in secret.

But this letter was not up to the challenge. “Constance is an accomplished woman, intelligent and literate. If you want to woo her away from Bonacieux, you must tempt her with artful words, not passive murder and the vague promise of a clumsy thrust.”

Porthos slapped the table in enthusiastic support of his old friend.

D’Artagnan lunged at Porthos. “You could do better?”

“Me? Nah,” Porthos said, deflating the escalation with a wave of his hand. “More a man of action, if you know what I mean.”

Athos darted a knowing look at Aramis. How many times had Porthos won a woman’s company after a street skirmish with nothing but a wink? Too bad d’Artagnan hadn’t the same gift.

D’Artagnan didn’t miss their unspoken comment. “And when was the last time you sent a love letter, Athos?” he taunted.

“Never. More of a reader, really. It’s Aramis you want,” Athos grumbled. “Impertinent little shit.”

D’Artagnan swung back to face Aramis. “What, honestly, is wrong with it? It _would_ be better for us both if Bonacieux was out of the way. I _will_ prove my love to her. Honorably. I can’t say so?”

“Not so blatantly, no.” Aramis scanned the letter again, deliberately stifling the cringe that threatened to overtake his features. He folded and stuffed it into d’Artagnan’s belt, then began what he hoped would be a quick, gentle lesson. “If you want to draw her out, then you can’t say _we must be together_. You have to show her. Describe your woe, the torture of her absence, the ache that steals over you without her arms wrapped around your waist. Recount the memory of your last embrace, how her lips yielded beneath yours, how your heart leapt in your chest as she pressed herself against you, the bliss that spread like fire through your veins when she confessed her desire.” 

“Yeah, like that,” Porthos agreed.

D’Artagnan’s shoulders went soft. He was listening. 

“And you can’t suggest that Bonacieux hang himself,” Aramis continued, beginning to enjoy the exercise. “If she’s staying to protect him, it will make her all the more defensive. Remind her instead of what she could have were her life disentangled from his. Imagine for her a home in Gascony, your farm rebuilt, the sweet air scented with wheat and lavender. Give her what she wants most there. Fat babies, happy children climbing ancient, knobby trees. A picnic in the afternoon, laying her gently back onto the blanket, pressing a fervent kiss into the hollow of her neck, the curve of her luscious bosom. Tempt her with the luxury of time alone together under the wide blue sky.”

Eyes wide and dark, d’Artagnan nodded once, then again. “That’s good. That’s – yes, that’s perfect.”

“That’s the idea, anyway,” Aramis hedged, pretending humility. “Just keep all that in mind when you try again.”

“You have to write it for me.”

Write the letter _for_ him? Impossible. A wretched plan. Entirely out of the question. Folly in any outcome.

Porthos laughed. Athos leaned back with a lazy, entertained grin. Aramis glared at the both of them who, by the look of it, saw this coming when he had not. “You see? This is why I don’t help people. They get the wrong idea and then three weeks later, I’m lying in the street with a sword in my gut.”

But d’Artagnan persevered, stepping in close enough for Aramis to realize, for the first time, that the young man was actually an inch or two taller. “But you know what I want to say. What I must say. You know better than I do myself and the way you say it – you’ll win her for me.”

Aramis might be prone to ill-conceived acts of heroism for a pretty face, but he knew a recipe for disaster when he saw one. “I won’t win her for you because I won’t write any such letter.”

This is where a smart, well-reared young man would yield. D’Artagnan, proving himself no such man, stood nearly chest to chest with Aramis now, as his intensity transformed into something like charm. “Aramis, please.” He ripped his letter in two, then four. “If you are my friend, you will do this for me. I love her, Aramis.”

* * *

 

D’Artagnan was a miserable writer but he was staunchly persistent when there was something he wanted. 

At morning exercises, d’Artagnan never seemed to let Aramis out of his sight. At afternoon drills, the young man trained beside him, silently expectant. The entire day, Aramis couldn’t take a piss without d’Artagnan tagging along.

Supper done and no work waiting, d’Artagnan was still at his heels as Aramis headed back to his quarters. “I appear to have acquired a new puppy,” Aramis finally teased, spinning in his doorway to face d’Artagnan.

“Will you do it?” d’Artagnan spurted, as if an entire day had not elapsed since they’d last spoken of the letter.

There was something so worn, so vulnerable around his eyes. Aramis couldn’t bring himself to order him out. He would have to make another attempt at logic, then. “Say I did it. Say I wrote a love letter and you signed it. You would be lying. To Constance. Your beautiful tulip of desire.”

“Dearest perfect beautiful flower,” d’Artagnan corrected, rolling his eyes at the words he had, just that morning, believed ideal. “It wouldn’t be a lie. I would call it… relying upon assistance.”

“You can call a dog a cock but it doesn’t make it so.” Aramis folded his arms and leaned against his threshold. He knew he shouldn’t tease, but d’Artagnan’s dark-eyed intensity brought out his playful side. “Certainly Constance is fair, and I do admire her spirit. But she is not _my_ dearest love. How can I seduce someone I don’t desire?”

And now, buoyed perhaps by the absence of a definitive refusal, d’Artagnan’s earnest expression slid toward a smirk. “But you’ve loved often and well,” he reasoned, “if your reputation has any truth to it. Couldn’t you find inspiration in your desire for another?”

Bold flattery. His own tactic turned against him, and by one so sweetly dashing. It was difficult not to be swayed. But more than that, the patter between them was too delicious to cease with the definitive nay he was growing less and less convinced of. “But d’Artagnan,” Aramis continued, “what if she were to realize the words were mine, not yours? If I’m as good as you imply, she might very well fall in love with the real author and abandon both you and her dreary husband.”

D’Artagnan wouldn’t be dissuaded. “I know she loves me.”

“Of course she does,” Aramis sighed, letting his gaze drift exhaustedly over the young man. Dusty boots, new scratches in his leather, shoulders that would eventually define a much stronger man. He was all potential and heart. “How could she help it?”

“I will kneel at your feet if I must. Just get me Constance.”

Aramis realized as d’Artagnan lowered himself on bent knee that the man had, somehow, dismantled his refusal.

“Stop, stop, I’ll do it,” Aramis finally agreed, surrendering. He lifted d’Artagnan by the elbow as he had the night before, patting him on the chest once he had his feet under him. “We’ll both regret this, I'm sure of it.”

 


	2. If all I am allowed is your echo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With special thanks to CreepingMuse, who is simultaneously the most wise and entertaining beta in the history of fic, not to mention an enabler of the highest order.

Did d’Artagnan stroll patiently away, satisfied with the victory? God forbid Aramis be so lucky.

“So, shall we begin?” d’Artagnan prodded.

Aramis hung his hat on the stand beside his cabinet. “Tomorrow. It’s been a long day, dragging you around. Give a man a chance to recover.”

But d’Artagnan wouldn’t budge from the doorway. “Don’t put me off, Aramis. Please.”

Aramis folded his arms, studying him. Just this side of adulthood and so promising. Aramis couldn’t help but be moved by d’Artagnan’s struggle. To beg another to reach out to his beloved on his behalf would indeed be agony for such a man of often impulsive action.

Perhaps tomorrow was too much to ask, especially of one so ill-suited to waiting.

“Come in then,” Aramis conceded with a gentle sigh.

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan said, lurching into the room. He didn’t sit in the desk chair but, with no other seating save the bed, instead perched like a crane in the middle of the floor.

First things first. If d’Artagnan refused him even five private minutes to settle himself, Aramis would simply do it under his hawkish eye. Never too exhausted to tease, he hung his cape with slow precision in the cabinet, then unbuckled his scabbard, rifle belt, and gunpowder purse and laid them carefully in his trunk. Only after he draped his leather coat on a stand did he lower himself into his chair in front of the heavy old table he had long ago claimed as his desk.

He lay some clean paper in the space before him, smoothing it only to prolong d’Artagnan’s mounting discomfort, then finally dipped his quill in ink.

“Assure her of my passionate devotion,” d’Artagnan blurted then, as if Aramis were some sort of assisting scribe.

Aramis dropped the quill back into his inkwell. “Nothing more from you, or I won’t allow you to stay.”

“But --”

“My way or not at all. Are we agreed?”

Met with silence, Aramis twisted to peer at him. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes but pumped a nod, deliberately sealing his lips against any further argument.

Aramis turned again to the waiting page. What would sway brave, willful Constance? What would intrigue her enough not to burn the letter at first sight?

She wasn’t wrong, that much was certain. Although Aramis had certainly been known to commit infidelity when offered by a willing, intriguing partner, still he appreciated the notion of marriage. He admired the romance of pledging oneself to another, of staking one’s honor on another’s protection. It felt rather like the vows he made years ago to the Musketeers. If Constance was determined to preserve her marriage, then turning her handsome young boarder away demonstrated a degree of resolve he had to applaud.

And with that, he knew just how to begin their siege. “You are right, Madame Bonacieux,” Aramis recited as he scratched the words into the paper, “to prevent my return.”

“What? No!” d’Artagnan erupted.

“Honestly?” Aramis shot back.

D’Artagnan raised his hands in reluctant surrender.

“Better.” Aramis continued, reciting as he wrote. “I would bear the torment of your absence a thousand times over to protect your good name. I would sail away across the western ocean, never to be heard from again, only to assure your peace.”

“This is not strictly what I had in mind,” d’Artagnan muttered under his breath.

“And so,” Aramis intoned over d’Artagnan’s complaint, “I brush lonely fingertips across my mouth, where yours first yielded to my inquiry.”

“Oh,” d’Artagnan whispered in quiet surprise.

Now, that was closer to the response Aramis felt he deserved. He continued: “My lungs tighten at the memory of your warm palms upon my chest.”

His bed finally squealed under d’Artagnan's weight.

“I do not sleep, for even as I am lulled by memories of your curls tangled about my fingers, fevered dreams of your breasts beneath my lips urge me awake.”

At d’Artagnan’s stuttering inhalation, Aramis spun to face him, his lips spreading in a wide grin. “Not strictly what you had in mind?” he teased.

“Go on, go on,” d’Artagnan hurried.

“I am tortured, haunted,” Aramis obliged, laughing lightly, “but I do not bemoan your ghost. If all I am allowed is your echo, still I embrace my good fortune.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“And in that joy again tonight, as your ghost’s diaphanous fingers encircle me, I will spend all my bliss in you.”

D’Artagnan gasped. “Did you just…? Fingers encircle… _spend_? Aramis, you can’t.”

“And yet I did.”

“But you imply --”

Aramis interrupted him then, standing to face an unsettled d’Artagnan. “Oh, I do indeed. And is it not true? Look at you. Your cheeks are ruddy. Sweat slicks your hairline. After you leave my room, will you not… spend some bliss in her ever-receptive ghost?”

D’Artagnan stood too, determined to deny it. “I would never --”

“Please,” Aramis countered with a withering glance.

“Believe what you will,” d’Artagnan blustered, flushing crimson, “but what would possess you to bare it to Constance? In what way could that possibly entice her?”

Aramis dragged his gaze over d’Artagnan then, face to knees and back. For someone who must have had plenty of attention already, he was stunningly naïve. “No, you’re right. The image of you, ecstatic and desperate, on the cusp of release? With her name on your lips? Your head rolled back into the pillow, shoulders wide, every muscle taut? Tiresome, I agree. Not the least bit intriguing.”

D’Artagnan was too disoriented to grasp his sarcasm. “Tiresome? Really?”

“No,” Aramis droned, “not really.” He dropped his palm onto d’Artagnan’s shoulder, urging him back down to the bed. “If she wants you the way you tell us she does, then she wants you like that. She wants you hard and eager.”

“Aramis, I don’t --”

“And if she wants you the way you _hope_ she does…” Aramis watched d’Artagnan lick his lips. “Well, then she knows what it is to be visited by an amorous ghost.”

D’Artagnan’s worry seemed to melt away with the distracting thought of it. Aramis could well imagine the performance d’Artagnan attended in his mind. Would he have her entirely disrobed, alone in the bath, breasts blushing and floating just at the surface? Or tangled in the bedclothes by flickering candlelight? Or could it still be the revelation of his own pleasure, mirrored back to him in black and white, that unfocused his eyes?

D’Artagnan heaved a long breath.

“Just leave it to me,” Aramis said, gentling him.

D’Artagnan had no words for Aramis, just a starry-eyed nod.

 

* * *

 

Despite the hour, Aramis took no pains to be quiet. He knew from years of adventures that his footfalls were loud enough to awaken Athos or Porthos. But d’Artagnan slept in the brightening dawn like a dead man. Even when Aramis walked all the way into his quarters, even when he his steps thudded heavily beside his pillow, d’Artagnan’s breath was obliviously calm.

What intimacy, Aramis mused, not for the first time, to gaze upon a sleeping face.

Did Constance gaze upon him like this when he boarded at her home, perhaps peeking in on his slumber during her husband’s morning ablutions? Aramis hoped, for her sake, that she had. For d’Artagnan’s figure was undeniably pleasing, with dark eyelashes unfurling over his cheeks – lashes full enough for women to covet – and broad, high cheekbones. His head lay twisted toward the pillow, revealing the long muscles of his neck, descending to a collarbone that anyone might mistake for the work of Michelangelo. Below that, ebony wisps of hair over his sternum matched those on his calf, half-exposed, tangled in the bedclothes.

Aramis left his gift, wrapped in a wine-hued ribbon, on the pillow beside d’Artagnan’s head.

A kind friend would let the drowsy Romeo lay in as long as he could. But it seemed d’Artagnan’s impatience was catching, for instead of walking out the door, Aramis found himself rapping loudly at it, grinning with anticipation.

As sweetly marble-hewn as d’Artagnan appeared at rest, he was wild-eyed as a startled stallion when jolted from it. “What – where –?” he gasped.

“A message for you,” Aramis explained, jutting his chin toward the pillow.

“Constance,” he whispered, tearing at the bow.

Aramis watched d’Artagnan scan the first line. It did not read “Dearest perfect darling d’Artagnan,” as he so transparently hoped.

“What is this?” D’Artagnan glanced up at Aramis, his brow furrowing with the question.

“Read it,” Aramis insisted.

“What purpose does this heart in my chest serve if not to glorify yours?” d’Artagnan began. His voice fell soft and low, pooling warm in his throat. “What future awaits these arms, if not to enfold you, or these lips, if not to kiss you? These eyes were meant to gaze upon you; all else is but a poor substitute. You are not mine to adore, I remind myself, but alas – I am too sleepless a fool to remember it. Accept my letters, I beg you; for it is only while I write them that I recognize myself.”

Aramis leaned against the doorjamb, a small bloom of pride twinkling behind his eyes. It sounded good in his head, yes, but so much more enticing from d’Artagnan’s tongue. “It only needs your signature,” Aramis said.

D’Artagnan’s eyes ranged over the words again. “A second letter? Has she even responded to the first one yet?”

“What, and give her better angels time to make their case? Never.” Aramis slapped the wall on his way out. “Bring it downstairs and I’ll deliver it straight away.”

“But how will we know if it's working?” d’Artagnan called after him.

Aramis ignored him. “It’s a barrage, d’Artagnan,” Aramis shouted through the courtyard, “an onslaught!”

 


	3. Now it is my turn to smile against your skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks and compliments to CreepingMuse, who shares with me searing insights about reading and kissing.

Aramis soon found that to woo a heart, even one he didn’t desire for himself, was nearly as entertaining as winning one.

He was not an hour back from the Bonacieux home before he rushed to put quill to paper again.

 

_What blissful relief to imagine us together in Gascony._

_A road winds through a sparse orchard of knobby, ancient olive trees where I used to climb as a boy, up to the weathered estate of my family’s farm. It lies in ruins now, but with you by my side, I would rebuild it._ (It didn’t matter that Aramis had never seen d’Artagnan’s land. Honorable, stalwart d’Artagnan, he felt sure, must have come from a place just like this. A home with the noble weight of ancestry, but dedicated to the warp and weft of the seasons.)

_I would fashion the estate smaller this time. Cozy on the inside, but fitted with tall windows in every room. For I adore nothing so much as your fresh face awash in the sun’s bright rays._

_I would fill our salon with books, a writing desk for you, seating for at least a dozen friends because your generous heart would surely draw them there. So too our family table, heavy and long for the feasts we would share with our happy neighbors. I would gaze at you down the length of it, past candlelight and the beam of joyful faces, and bless my fortune for you._

_And after you sent our last tipsy guest home clutching a bundle of sweets, I would take you in my arms and anoint every freckle upon your luminous skin with a kiss._

 

And then another, after two hours at attention in full sun while the King met a bewildered Portuguese duke and his pinch-faced father. It gave Aramis plenty of time to think.

 

_Allow me to tell you more about our life in Gascony._

_In the fullness of summer, westerly breezes waft scents of wheat and lavender. The trees grow heavy with fruit; overripe olives crush beneath our feet as we follow our boy and girl over the grounds. You laugh at their antics. I try to emulate your light heart, but our good fortune overwhelms me, bringing me near happy tears more often than I let on._

_The boy is brave, like you. He is a far better swordsman than I, and that before a single whisker graces his pale cheek. His smile is yours as well, immediately joyful. You’re sure he will break every heart in a hundred miles, but I expect he will dash his own heart against the rocks a time or two first._

_The girl, you believe, has my soulful eyes. She loves to run, her black curls flying behind her, and I am the only one fast enough to catch her. Like you, she overflows with love, and she has a particular gift with animals. She stills when she draws near the lambs, calming herself so completely that they suffer no fear of her at all, and then up they come, right to her open palm, where sits a morsel of carrot or apple saved for just the occasion._

_The little ones frolic in the bright summer sun and we trail behind. Soon we reach our favorite hill, from which we may survey the land for miles in each direction. You’ve brought a blanket for us and packed some bread, cheese, and wine, but I am impatient as ever. I set our meal aside and lay you gently back onto the blanket. Our children laugh, at play in the olive grove, and all is well as I brush your curls back from your forehead and kiss you long and deep under the wide, blue sky._

 

* * *

 

Two finished letters in hand, Aramis flew down the steps to the courtyard seeking d’Artagnan’s signature. That last element was necessary: although certainly his plain swoops and lines would be simple for Aramis to mimic, the act of forgery constituted too much deception. No, d’Artagnan’s own signature, made by his own hand, was just the veil of truth the enterprise needed. As long as d’Artagnan signed the letters, he endorsed them. They were his.

And, truth be told, Aramis was eager to watch his reaction when he read them.

He found d’Artagnan in the middle of a lesson: Athos and Porthos were giving some apparently muddy tips about two on one fighting. Athos swung; d’Artagnan jerked out of the way but, caught suddenly by Porthos’ left jab, collapsed to his knees in the muck.

Athos stopped them all with a wave of his arm when he caught Aramis’ eye. “D’Artagnan,” he prompted, flicking his chin toward Aramis.

“Loverboy conference, can’t miss it,” Porthos taunted, offering his forearm to lift d’Artagnan to his feet.

D’Artagnan took it, brushing mud-caked straw from his boot with his other hand. “Do you figure you’ll stop bothering me about this sometime soon?”

“Not likely,” Athos answered, shoving him lightly in Aramis’ direction. “Off with you.”

D’Artagnan followed Aramis around the corner, out of earshot of their compatriots. “Please tell me you have news from Constance,” he begged, despair simmering under his rapidly thinning composure.

Aramis braced d’Artagnan’s shoulder, shaking his head. “I do not have news from Constance.”

“This isn’t working.”

“It’s been a day. One day.”

“Perhaps she’s out of town.”

“She’s not.”

The torture was written plainly on d’Artagnan’s face. “Have you seen her?”

Aramis knew what the poor man meant: _Have you been lucky enough to see her when I cannot?_ “She seems well,” he offered. It was the best he could do.

“Does she look happy? Content? In love with her prick of a husband?”

“We do not speak.” Aramis tried to capture d’Artagnan’s unsettled gaze. “I knock, I deliver the letter into the hands of her maid, I tip my hat to Constance where she hovers in a far doorway. I leave.”

D’Artagnan heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s not working.”

“Give it time.” Aramis produced his two newest missives from behind his back. “To which end, these require your signature.”

“Two at once?” D’Artagnan read out the first, his voice hushed and, soon, a bit melancholy. “You capture Gascony as if you lived there yourself.”

It was silly of him, Aramis knew, to take such pride in his work that d’Artagnan’s compliment should warm him so completely. He smiled at the ground, offering a quill.

D’Artagnan signed the first letter against the wall and then reached for the second to sign as well. His name etched heavily at the bottom, he began to read the second aloud.

“A better swordsman?” d’Artagnan repeated in the middle of the sentence.

“ _Far_ better,” Aramis corrected him with a smirk. “Your words, not mine. I was impressed, to be honest. Humility is such an underrated virtue, and so unusual in the young.”

* * *

 

Aramis returned again and again to thoughts of d’Artagnan – his longing, his desperation. How his eyes glazed with the thought of pleasure, right here, at the foot of his bed. How valiant he was in pursuit of his goal.

It must have been after midnight when inspiration roused him to write another letter.

 

_Your mouth is my obsession, yet somehow it is never enough. When I bend to your kiss, it is apotheosis. But now the slope of your jaw beckons and I follow. You let your head fall back into my waiting palm and then it is your elegant neck desperate for my lips, and I obey._

_Your mouth beckons; I long to taste your lips again. I feel, even now, sweet puffs of startled breath against my cheek as your lips curve away from mine in a smile. Ah, the roses of your cheeks, I must attend them, and just nearby, the delicate shell of your ear. You giggle; now it is my turn to smile against your skin._

_Your mouth, I confide in it again as with some secret. Do I dare slide my tongue just inside, to where yours is waiting? To join this way, the barest promise of the unison I don’t dare imagine, is the most delicious torture._

 

There was something about the letter, a kind of resonance that Aramis couldn’t quite place. It felt truer than the rest. He hoped that was a good sign.

* * *

 

Aramis caught d’Artagnan, amid the garrison’s morning bustle, just leaving his quarters.

“Here,” Aramis offered, handing him the letter.

D’Artagnan flared his eyes at the page almost immediately, then fell quiet. Surrounded by activity, he read the words to himself this time. His lips moved lightly, opening, puckering. He grazed the lower with his teeth. Line after line, his lips shaped and reshaped themselves in silent pronunciation.

What an intriguing sight, to watch him mouth the words as he read. The very same words Aramis had whispered as he transferred them to the page, d’Artagnan now kissed with his own lips.

Oh. This. Oh, no.

Was this the resonance Aramis felt when he conceived the letter? Was this what prodded him awake? How had he mistaken it?

It was not some past love resounding in these lines, but a present one finally making itself felt.

D’Artagnan.

Aramis could not tear his eyes from d’Artagnan’s gently moving lips.

It wasn’t the first time Aramis had fallen, ill-advisedly, for someone whose heart was otherwise engaged. A quick, cursory review suggested that he may never once have loved wisely. Why should this be any different?

Nor was this the first time his heart had devoted itself to a man. Marcellus was the first, an impetuous soldier with gray eyes like clouds threatening rain. Recklessly romantic, he drew Aramis from his pain at the loss of Isabelle. Their winter affair verified what he had already suspected: that his heart could love a man or a woman with equal ardor. In that, however, he had cruelly come to learn he was rare. Even Athos, tender and surprisingly inquisitive though he was, ultimately could not return Aramis’ passion, determining their convergence better a friendship.

The last line finished, d’Artagnan blew an appreciative whistle. “Are you sure _you’re_ not in love with her?” he teased as he signed the letter.

The most Aramis could muster was a rueful chuckle.

D'Artagnan handed the letter back to him, suddenly serious. “Listen, have I thanked you for all of this? You’ve done so much for me.” He laid his hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.” And then he paused, easily capturing the congested gaze Aramis was now helpless to divert.

Aramis watched d'Artagnan walk away until he was well out of sight. Then he fell heavily back against the wall, thudding his head against it for good measure. “Will you never learn, you foolish heart?”


	4. Such a harmless delight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Thanks to CreepingMuse and latbfan, women of unerring taste and literary vision who remind me when I’m battling bratty little plot bunnies that it’s the characters that matter.)

* * *

 

Aramis didn’t deliver the letter that morning. He was too busy, he told himself. And to ensure it, he mended the worn fabric of two linen shirts, cleaned his musket, sharpened his sword, volunteered for three separate cross-town errands, brushed his horse more thoroughly than he had in a year, then polished every nook and expanse of his saddle until it gleamed.

Meanwhile, his mind returned relentlessly to that morning’s scene, remembering d’Artagnan silently mouthing his love letter, full of a kiss Aramis had devised for him.

There was just no time for delivery before they were summoned to the parade ground after dusk, and not a moment to spare afterward. Aramis finally had to admit he had no intention of delivering the letter when, at day’s end, he slipped it into a drawer inside his cabinet.

Tomorrow he would set to work on a few lines about Constance’s pale breasts and cool fingers, her sweet smile perhaps. But this letter, this kiss, was his.

The fantasy was all he could hope for in any case, at least right now. D’Artagnan pined for Constance with such intensity that there was no room for any other thought. And so Aramis resolved to hide his love away with the letter. What use was his longing to anyone, including himself? Although self-denial didn’t come naturally to him, Aramis would turn away errant lust, reinterpret swells of admiration, and remain d’Artagnan’s stalwart friend.

All for one, after all.

Besides, were Aramis to confess his affection, there was no guarantee it would even be tolerated, let alone welcomed. D’Artagnan was painfully inexperienced in romance; who could say what his heart was made of? If Aramis was lucky, the urge to reenact his letter in every detail and then some might fade to nothing for lack of attention.

But he knew himself better than that.

* * *

 

Days turned to weeks as d’Artagnan waited for Constance to respond. To distract himself, he dedicated himself to becoming a better musketeer.

Athos took him under his wing – an arrangement he originally volunteered for, he confided to Aramis, because he worried the impulsive new recruit would bolt for the Bonacieux residence and get himself killed if left unattended. But d’Artagnan was motivated and eager, and Athos was a patient, exacting mentor. At their daily swordsmanship practice, Athos honed d’Artagnan’s focus and fostered a new inner calm.

Athos never hesitated to use assignments for the captain or the king as field education, and d’Artagnan related the stories over wine or ale in the evenings.

“The twitchy rat would not relent. He kept repeating ‘I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it.’ And then Athos says to me, right in front of him: ‘All right, we know he did it, but how are you going to get him to admit it?’ And then we debate whether we should threaten him, hurt him a little, poke holes in his story…”

Porthos, whose hand-to-hand lessons with d’Artagnan were progressing well enough, piped in. “Tell me you gave him a taste of your left hook.”

Athos, quietly proud, shook his head.

D’Artagnan was bursting to continue. “I just looked at him. Gave him the Athos glare, you know the one, and the man practically shat himself. Not only did he admit to stealing everything in the vault, he told us where he hid it all and who helped him. Just like that.”

Athos held his glass up, toasting d’Artagnan. “He’s a natural.”

Aramis beamed. It made him fall in love with soldiering all the more, to see d’Artagnan so excitedly recount his progress. More than that, it was an excuse to revel in the charming way d’Artagnan’s sudden smile overtook his entire face. It was an indulgence, he knew, to gaze long and lovingly at d’Artagnan this way. But Aramis had to allow himself something, and this was such a harmless delight.

As marksmanship was Aramis’ undisputed province, it was expected that he’d give d’Artagnan the benefit of his experience. And he did, once. They rode out for a full day of practice in the Bois de Boulogne: deer and ducks were plentiful there, as were bandits who, Aramis reasoned, would make doubly practical targets.

But it was the first they had been alone together for any stretch since Aramis’ epiphany. Aramis was a distracted mess the entire time. He battled pangs of longing when d’Artagnan squared his wide shoulders for a shot. When d’Artagnan’s aim wavered, his low, sizzling groan at the loss nearly turned Aramis inside out. D’Artagnan, for his part, spent more time peering with puzzled consternation at his tutor than aiming for their quarry.

Aramis indefinitely postponed the rest of their practice sessions, arguing that d’Artagnan’s efforts were occupied elsewhere, which they were, and that he was very busy himself. Which he was: stifling the flutter in his lungs, hiding the dumb grin that threatened at the very sight of d’Artagnan.

Meanwhile, Aramis wrote lines for Constance every morning without fail. Here a sonnet, next a faint impression, an illustration of yearning. It was an interval of almost prayerful dedication in which he pondered the notion of d’Artagnan in love, d’Artagnan adored, d’Artagnan overcome by desire. D’Artagnan himself rarely read them, signing them quickly before trotting off after Athos or Porthos. It didn’t matter;for Aramis, true calm only ever descended during the pink dawn hour when he put pen to paper.

* * *

 

Late one afternoon, not quite a month after Aramis first wrote to Constance, a short woman with plump, rolling hips and possibly the most abundant bosom Aramis had ever seen marched boisterously into the garrison courtyard.

“Where is d’Artagnan?!” she howled.

Athos intercepted her with steadying calm. “Madame, may I be of service?”

She reared back. “Are you d’Artagnan?”

“My name is Athos; I am the --”

“Then get out of my way!” the woman interrupted, shoving him to the side. “D’Artagnan!”

Aramis knew without doubt that the woman came to deliver Constance’s refusal. The stab of rejection was too sharp not to feel it himself: her decision was made, the mission had failed, and all he could do now was ache for d’Artagnan while the terrible scene unfolded.

D’Artagnan jogged to meet the woman. “That’s me,” he said, his eyes positively sparkling with naïve hope.

“Here,” she said, shoving a bundle of papers into d’Artagnan’s open hands. “Take these back.”

D’Artagnan shifted, curling toward her with worry. “Why, has something happened? Has Constance been harmed?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” the woman carped, “but she’s fine. Aside from being annoyed by you every single day.”

Aramis cringed. “Annoyed?” d’Artagnan asked.

“She says to leave her alone.” She poked her thick finger at his chest. “You hear? Leave. Her. Alone.” Then, with an angry sniff, she turned and marched back out of the courtyard.

D’Artagnan watched her go. Then, vague as a sleepwalker, he braced the bundle of Aramis’ letters under his arm and opened Constance’s note. Minutes ticked by. Athos and Aramis waited silently for him.

Then, with a sharp breath, d’Artagnan looked up to find them both. D’Artagnan met Aramis’ concern with a blank stare. “Read this,” he said, holding the note out to him.

 

_D’Artagnan,_

_Please understand, I have to deny you. I have no choice._

_We shared a beautiful dream, but you can’t sleep forever. Let this be an end, for both our sakes._

_C._

_(And stop sending letters! I want no part in whatever game you mean to play. I can plainly see you didn’t write them, and_ _I've begun to doubt they're meant for me at all.)_

 

“It’s over,” d’Artagnan said.

Wildly rude though it was, unfounded hope nudged at Aramis. But he had plenty of recent practice pushing unhelpful thoughts aside.

“It appears to be,” Aramis agreed, gently.

“I never thought, all this time,” d’Artagnan told them. “Let this be an end, she says.”

“It was always a possibility. You made a valiant attempt.”

At that, resolve ignited behind d’Artagnan’s eyes. “No, I’m going over there. Right now.”

But Athos grabbed his arm. “Absolutely not.”

“I can’t let this stand,” he insisted.

“You, who she has now twice turned away, would barge into the home she shares with her husband,” Athos said, a mentor even in this. “Would that sway her, do you think?”

D’Artagnan glared over Athos’ shoulder, vibrating with impatience, until an idea sparked. “She didn’t reject me. She rejected Aramis.”

“No,” Aramis countered. Athos took a deep, frustrated breath.

But d’Artagnan persisted, attempting to reason it out. “Something’s been different. The letters, it has to be. This whole scheme, you did it all on purpose. Did you want to win her for yourself? Or just make a fool of me?”

Had Aramis paused to consider it the accusation might have stung, but he was too indignant to do anything but argue. “That’s ridiculous. You begged me, on your knees, to write to her for you. And I agreed, _like a fool_ , only because you were so desperate.”

D’Artagnan refused to listen. “Congratulations. You did it.” He stepped back once, then again. “You’ve ruined my life.”

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis began, but he stalked away. Athos shot Aramis a quieting look before following after him.

* * *

 

The man didn’t know what he was talking about. Aramis had spent weeks conjuring images, turns of phrase, entire stories to fill Constance with longing for d’Artagnan. He had risen before the sun only to preserve their promise. He wanted nothing more than for Constance and d’Artagnan to be happy.

Well. Perhaps slightly more.

But had he sabotaged their love? No. Of course not! He hadn’t.

Porthos, back from assignment, found Aramis in the grimy tavern he reserved for rare bouts of wallowing.

“So loverboy is single now,” Porthos marveled, pulling up a chair.

Aramis lifted his glass. “The cruel bonds of matrimony.”

“And you’re the culprit, I hear.”

“The very same.”

“He’ll be back,” Porthos assured him without missing a beat.

“With another round of unfounded accusations? Perfect.”

“With some perspective, I’d guess.”

“I should never have gotten involved. It was an impossible task from the start. She was already lost, letters or no.”

“Athos will get that through d’Artagnan’s thick skill. You’ll see: tomorrow he’ll apologize and you two can kiss and make up.”

At that Aramis canted his head, pretending calm, and took a long look at his old friend. What was he to make of Porthos’ wording? A figure of speech, or something more? How could Porthos know? He couldn’t.

“You’d have to be blind not to see it,” Porthos said with half a smile.

“See what?” Aramis asked as evenly as he could over his now pounding pulse.

“First Athos, now d’Artagnan. You know,” Porthos continued conversationally, lifting Aramis’ glass right out of his fingers, “I’m starting to get jealous.”

Aramis opened his mouth to respond, but that was as far as he got.

Porthos winked. “All in good time, yeah?”

“What do you…?” Bewildered, Aramis let the sentence hang open, like his lips.

“Eventually. Obviously not now. Not while you’re drooling for the Gascon. I mean, I’m not crazy enough to fall for someone who’s spoken for.”

There it was then, out in the open. But that was Porthos, gloriously indelicate.

Finally, Aramis wheezed a breathless laugh. “That makes one of us,” he admitted, laughing a little more, trying out a tired grin. “Porthos, I’m an idiot fool.”

“Yeah, you are.”

They both laughed, louder this time. It helped more than Aramis would have believed.

“See? You’ll be back to yourself in no time.” Porthos folded both arms on the table, leaning in with a soft, warm voice. “You know he’d be a fool to turn you down.”

Aramis mirrored his best Porthos wink. “Brazen flirt.”

 


	5. I swell to meet your amber cheek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for the letter fragments d’Artagnan reads below were found in poetry by Emily Dickinson and Tennessee Williams. Inspiration for everything else came from these goddamn swashbucklers and conversations with the incomparable CreepingMuse.

It was probably nothing. The garrison was full of all kinds of bumps in the night.

Then it came again, quiet but deliberate: three slow raps on his door.

Aramis pulled his breeches on as he twisted out of bed, still not entirely awake. He lit his bedside candle and swung the door open. There, leaning his forehead against the outer threshold, was d’Artagnan. He seemed to have wilted there, his hands full of letters.

Without a word, Aramis let him in. D’Artagnan, staring at the clutched pages, sat down heavily into the desk chair. Aramis, bracing himself for a sure eruption of blame or despair, lowered himself onto the edge of his bed, facing him.

But d’Artagnan didn’t rail or accuse. Instead he read, in a velvet whisper. “You race into a future where I cannot follow.” He sighed. “What does that mean?”

“Lamenting that you’re apart,” Aramis answered, now entirely unsure what to make of the visit.

D’Artagnan turned to the next letter. “I dwell in the shade between worlds, neither forsaking my love’s luminous dawn nor accepting the cursed midnight that threatens without you.” He shot a questioning glance at Aramis.

“Just that… you refuse to stop loving,” Aramis explained. What was wrong with d’Artagnan? He vibrated with tension, but apparently not from anger. Aramis was usually more intuitive than this; was it lingering exhaustion that had him so confused?

The pages crinkled in d’Artagnan’s loose grip. He found another, clearing his throat to read. “Let me recast every moment when I might have kissed you, but did not. Give me the hour we wasted in silence, each cocooned in our own mind, so that I may erase regret.”

The images that swam before his eyes the morning he wrote those words retook Aramis: gallant d’Artagnan astride his mount, windblown. Oblivious in his beauty. Lost in his thoughts.

Another; Aramis let his gaze fall to d’Artagnan’s lips as he read, the tart pang of longing all too familiar now. “You are the moon to my tide. Attuned to your least whim, I swell to meet your amber cheek.” D’Artagnan slipped the page to the bottom of the messy pile. “Her cheeks are pink.”

 _But yours are smooth, dusky amber._ Aramis flashed an embarrassed grimace as he registered his oversight, then improvised an excuse. “The full moon is amber. Sometimes. It’s a metaphor.”

D’Artagnan found another and read. “Might we find each other at the blush of sunset, in a garden heavy with the scent of lilacs? I would wait under an arbor grown thick with evening blossoms, breathless with anticipation. And could you come running, suddenly and perfectly, into my arms?” He looked up, almost stricken.

Aramis shrugged. “You can’t argue against that one. It’s lovely.”

“It has nothing to do with Constance.”

“Of course it does. She comes running.”

But d’Artagnan clearly hadn’t the strength to argue. “Aramis,” he said, pleading. For what, Aramis wouldn’t dare guess. “Where’s the one about the kiss?”

They sat so close, and the night was so silent around them, that Aramis was sure d’Artagnan could hear his heart suddenly pounding. “Which?”

D’Artagnan stared down at his bundle of letters. “The letter you wrote about the kiss. I remember reading it, but it’s not here.”

 _Careless!_ Caught, Aramis scrambled. “She could have kept it as a souvenir.” It wasn’t precisely a lie: she could have, if she’d ever seen it.

The man shook his head. “She wouldn’t.”

Aramis watched d’Artagnan exhale, wilting even more.

“I was wrong to blame you,” d’Artagnan said without meeting Aramis’ eye. “Forgive me.”

Aramis couldn’t help but smile at d’Artagnan’s forgiveness, blowing through him like the first clean breeze of spring. “Nothing to forgive,” he told him.

“There is. You were right. I should have listened to you.” D’Artagnan smoothed his thumb over a page, running the pad of it over the loops and slant of Aramis’ words. “I thought you might have left off writing these. But you never did.”

Aramis tipped his head.

“They’re beautiful. I didn’t realize. They.” D’Artagnan swallowed. “I can feel the passion in them.”

Lightly, d’Artagnan’s knee fell against the inside of Aramis’ thigh.

Aramis held his breath, looking at their legs together. D’Artagnan didn’t move away. He just breathed, slowly, and Aramis could hear, at the edges, the barest tremble. “Where’s the letter about the kiss?” d’Artagnan asked, softer this time. “Did you keep it?”

Silence hung between them.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan breathed, frozen.

“I kept it,” Aramis told him. Risking a hell of a lot.

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t meant for her.”

D’Artagnan didn’t look up at him, didn’t entirely acknowledge the meaning there except to press his knee just a bit more into Aramis’ thigh, gently prodding him to explain.

“When I started, I tried to see her through your eyes. I did. But then. Then I began to see _you_ through _hers_ : your honor, your hopeful soul. Your strength. I knew how she must long to thread her fingers through your hair, how she would yearn for your lips.”

Aramis leaned closer, whispering to d’Artagnan’s downcast face.

“And then, that letter. That kiss, in such naked detail. I watched your lips shape the words and I knew: I hadn’t written it _for_ you. I’d written it _to_ you.” There were hours more confession to make but Aramis faltered. He fell silent, watching his face, waiting.

D’Artagnan took a fragile, shuddering breath. “Do you still have it? Here?”

Aramis didn’t have to speak; they were so near each other that he knew d’Artagnan would sense his nod.

D’Artagnan lifted his eyes, deep and dark, and met Aramis’ gaze. “Read it to me.”

“Your mouth is my obsession,” Aramis breathed without a second thought, recalling with perfect clarity the lines he had read over too many times now to count. “Yet somehow it is never enough. When I bend to your kiss… apotheosis. The slope of your jaw beckons, I follow. You let your head fall back into my waiting palm, your neck is desperate for my lips. And I obey.”

Aramis watched d’Artagnan’s gaze drop to his lips, could almost feel it on his skin.

He continued, his voice so soft it broke. “Your mouth beckons; I long to taste your lips again. I feel, even now, sweet puffs of startled breath against my cheek as your lips curve away from mine in a smile.”

D’Artagnan’s lips twitched toward a smile.

“The roses of your cheeks, I must attend them, and the shell of your ear. You laugh; now it is my turn to smile against your skin.”

D’Artagnan’s breath caught as he slid his warm palm slowly over where Aramis’ linen sleeve opened above his wrist. “There’s more, isn’t there?” he asked, the words molasses thick.

Aramis nodded, so inextricably ensnared by those dark, soulful eyes that he couldn’t have stopped now if he wanted to. “Your mouth, I confide in it again as with some secret.”

D’Artagnan let all the pages of letters fall to the floor.

Aramis licked his lips. “Do I dare slide my tongue just inside?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan gasped, launching himself into Aramis’ arms, standing them both up with the force of his need.

Aramis crashed into him, kissed him hard enough to bruise, hard enough to convince himself it was truly d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan whose lips he had memorized. But they were so new to him this way, opening fevered and strong against his. Aramis wrapped a hand around the nape of d’Artagnan’s neck, another under his shoulder to curl his body into his more, more. D’Artagnan spread his palm wide on Aramis’ cheek, sucking at his bottom lip, licking, nearly frantic and Aramis loved it, loved being handled like this, having his head shifted so d’Artagnan could kiss him deeper, kiss him better.

Aramis slid his hand down d’Artagnan’s spine, savoring its muscular curve to his waist and then squeezed him closer still. D’Artagnan bowed into him, teasing the tip of Aramis’ tongue with his own and sucking at it, letting his palm find the blade of Aramis’ jaw. He traced it with a finger, hard, then with his thumb before he buried himself in the hollow beneath it, biting at it, sliding his arm up along Aramis’ spine, his neck, into his hair. Aramis let his head fall back into d’Artagnan’s waiting palm, let d’Artagnan squeeze his waist until his own hips bowed now, nearly thrusting.

With a sigh, Aramis threaded his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair, pushing it back from his temples to look into his eyes, and took his mouth again. He brushed his lips over d’Artagnan’s gently, stroking them, reminding him they could be soft together. D’Artagnan yielded to his lead, letting Aramis devote himself to the lips that had haunted him so. Their mouths pulled, pushed, fit together and came exquisitely apart only to pounce again, unwilling to be separated. Neither of them could get enough and at the revelation of it, Aramis had to smile.

D’Artagnan bit Aramis’ bottom lip, tugging the smile from it and drawing a groan from deep in Aramis’ chest. He wrapped his arms around Aramis, squeezed him close again, pressing his hips against him. Aramis paused to catch d’Artagnan’s thick gaze, his lusciously dark eyes. It was so much richer than anything his mind had attempted to conjure. D’Artagnan was animal and angel in one.

That one look unlocked a new urgency. They tore each other’s shirts from under the waistbands of their breeches, d’Artagnan intent on the front of Aramis’ waist, Aramis pulling d’Artagnan’s out at his back. They parted lips only long enough to tug the fabric over their heads and off, gone, thrown to the floor and d’Artagnan thrown to the bed. Aramis was immediately above him, hovering, kissing into d’Artagnan’s sternum, licking around his nipple, tracing his collarbone with swollen lips, letting his weight press d’Artagnan into the mattress.

D’Artagnan arched into Aramis with a low, sizzling moan. Was it the delectable shock of skin on skin that elicited it? The intoxicating feeling of slotting in hard beside him? Aramis leaned a thigh between d’Artagnan’s opening legs, curling up and over him like a wave, and surrendered his lips to d’Artagnan’s waiting mouth. D’Artagnan’s palms were feverishly hot over Aramis’ flanks, nails dragging over his ribcage, over muscles that curved under the leather of his breeches. His hands were hungry for skin, clutching and sliding under the waistband and over the curve of Aramis’ arse. It earned d’Artagnan a painfully slow thrust, which d’Artagnan answered with a hiss.

Aramis trailed his fingers to where their hips urged into each other in slow rhythm and opened d’Artagnan’s fastenings with one practiced hand. D’Artagnan’s mouth fell open as Aramis dragged his breeches down over his smallclothes, over his legs, pushing his boots and stocking off with them, with d’Artagnan’s eager help. All of it gone but a thin layer of fabric, Aramis paused to drink in the sight of him.

When Aramis stretched himself beside him, d’Artagnan reached for Aramis’ breeches. “We have time,” Aramis assured him, “all the time in the world,” and laid him back into the pillow, trailing his fingers over his nose, his moist lips, over his prickly chin and down the center line of his chest, his belly, trembling deliciously beneath his fingertips, and finally to the laces that strained to hold back his exuberant cock. D’Artagnan’s breath stuttered when Aramis tugged at the tie.

Aramis already missed his lips and as if d’Artagnan knew it his head fell to the side and he offered his mouth. Aramis sank into his kiss just as his hand slipped under the last veil of fabric, encircling d’Artagnan’s cock as it leapt in his hand. The low sizzle returned, longer, more urgent this time, as d’Artagnan fucked up into Aramis’ waiting fist.

D’Artagnan laid his palm on Aramis’ cheek, straining to pull him closer, curling his body with every thrust until, still anchored to Aramis’ firm fingers, he faced Aramis chest to chest. And then, desperately sucking at Aramis’ lips, nearly incoherent, he thrust once, twice, and spilled against Aramis’ belly. Aramis gazed as the pained constriction of climax melted from d’Artagnan’s features into something blessed and easy. He was utterly astounded by his good fortune to know, finally, that d’Artagnan’s heart was made of the same supple stuff as his own.

“Why didn’t you tell me how you felt?” d’Artagnan asked, smiling lightly, still catching his breath.

“Fear. Pride.” Aramis tugged a sheet out from beneath them, cleaning them both off. He watched as d’Artagnan lifted his hips to meet his ministrations. Had there ever in the history of love been anything so glorious as d’Artagnan, freshly spent and still eager? “If I’d known your reaction would be so positive, I would have told you immediately.”

D’Artagnan hummed at that and captured Aramis’ lips again. Aramis let himself be laid back into the mattress, let d’Artagnan unfasten his breeches, flashing a lascivious grin, and tug them off. His smalls were untied before he knew it, and then it was as if d’Artagnan was torn, pushing himself up, dragging his linen-sheathed thigh against Aramis’ cock to kiss him, to bite at his lip, then down his neck to swirl his tongue around his nipple, then back again to his lips, his tongue. Aramis gave himself over, let d’Artagnan explore, let him taste every inch of his chest, his neck, his mouth, let him open those impossibly delicious lips over his cock and suck, good God, suck long leisurely strokes with his hot, hungry mouth until Aramis couldn’t hold back and came, and still d’Artagnan sucked until every drop was gone.

* * *

 

Dawn threatened behind the shuttered window. The candle flickered out. The two lay tangled together, basking in the new delight of their union, bare but for the necklace d’Artagnan let play between his fingers over Aramis’ chest, rising and falling with soft breath.

“No letter today,” d’Artagnan said, kissing a nipple.

“No need,” Aramis answered, letting d’Artagnan’s hair fall around his fingers.

“I’ll miss them.”

Aramis laughed lightly, twisting a lock of his hair.

“Aramis?”

“Mm?”

“Would you write me a letter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line “I didn’t write the letters for you, but to you” is CreepingMuse’s, as is the necklace at the end. A body curling into another like a wave, which was so gorgeous that I just stole it like a raging klepto, belongs to breathtaken. I am pretty taken with this little quartet, clearly, and may not be able to prevent myself reporting on all the glorious boning Aramis and d’Artagnan will now enjoy, plus Aramis’ eventual hook-up with Porthos, and the whole Athos/Aramis backstory. So if you’re interested, keep an eye out.


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